Mountain of Daggers (4 page)

Volker pulled up the dangling line so no passersby would notice it. Once finished he began untying the knot holding it in place.

“What are you doing?” Ahren hissed through gritted teeth. “We’ll need that to get down.”

“We’ll need it first to get inside the chapel.”

“That’s what your rope is for.”

The large man shook his head. “Mine’s for the escape.” He gave a sly smile. “Trust me.”

Ahren shrugged, not having a choice in the matter. Until he had proven himself, Volker was in charge. Fritz had made that unquestionably clear.

Volker handed the coiled rope to Ahren and nodded to the top of the dome. Ahren pulled it over his shoulder, checked again to see if anyone was looking, and climbed up the rough dome to the top.

Pigeons cooed and fluttered from just inside the dome, giving him a momentary panic as he reached the lip. He lay on his stomach and looked down through the three-foot opening. The dark chapel appeared empty. A shallow pool surrounded by inlaid stonework rested directly below.

Ahren gripped one of the carved figures standing watch over the entrance and tried to jostle it. It felt secure. Quickly, he tied the line around the statue’s base, and dropped the end into the cavernous church. Volker crawled up beside him and began fastening his own line as Ahern grabbed his rope and carefully lowered his legs through the yawning hole.

Plump grey pigeons fluttered from the rafters away from their invader. Ahren descended the line quickly, hand over hand; careful not to shake the rope too hard in case the granite anchor might not be as sturdy as he had thought. Volker’s black, slender rope dropped down beside him, and the birds once again stirred as the large man crawled down from the roof.

Upon reaching the bottom, Ahren stretched his foot out and stepped onto the outer lip of the hallowed pool that the priests used to catch rain, the holy water of Arieth, The True God. A white, lumpy skin of pigeon droppings and feathers covered the ‘purest of waters.’

Ahren dropped to the inlaid floor, careful not to disturb the priest sleeping in the room behind the eastern door. He hurried to an arched alcove. There, inside a box of beveled glass and under a massive copper lid, a withered green thumb rested on a gold- and jewel-encrusted plaque; the sacred thumb of Saint Theobold.

Volker crept up beside him and, without saying a word, grabbed the edges of the thick graven lid. Ahren took the other side and together they lifted the heavy covering. His trembling hands strained under the weight, forcing him to lean his back into it to keep from dropping it. Slowly, they lowered the cover, careful not to make any noise. The low scrape as it touched the floor echoed through the chamber, yet didn’t even disturb the cooing birds. Ahren let out a sigh, shaking the feeling back into his curled fingers.

The bald man smiled and winked at him before slipping out of the alcove toward the altar. Ahren took another breath, reached inside the box and removed the plaque from the dusty velvet pillow. The thick gold and large jewels gave the eight-inch wide tablet considerable heft. He opened the satchel at his waist and set it inside between two layers of folded cloth. Before refastening the flap, he removed a long, black raven’s feather and placed it on the empty green pillow. He smiled, imagining the priest’s face tomorrow morning. The soft rattling of a chain pulled Ahren’s attention back to the present. Volker stood before a great marble statue of Arieth, removing a golden triangle-shaped pendulum from his hands. The holy icon was worth a fortune, but the relic inside Ahren’s pouch was priceless. The church would do anything to retrieve it, likely forgetting about the triangle.

Volker tucked the treasure inside his satchel and gave the signal he was ready. Ahren tightened the ties to his pouch, adjusted the strap digging into his shoulder, and hurried to the dangling ropes.

Despite his size, Volker hurried up the line with a spider’s grace. He had already untied and coiled his rope by the time Ahren reached the top. Ahren pulled his rope up and slung it back over his shoulder.

They scooted down the side of the high dome to the outer wall. Ahren made sure no one was watching as Volker tied his line to one of the spheres. A horse-drawn carriage rolled down the street toward them, forcing the thieves to hide in the shadows until it had passed. After the sound of hooves faded away, Volker motioned for Ahren to climb down.

Ahren took the round silk line and noticed Volker’s irregular-shaped knot holding it in place. The gnarled series of figure eights didn’t resemble any knot Ahren had ever seen. Making a note to show his mentor proper rope skills, he dropped the line down the other side and lowered himself to the cemetery below then hid behind one of the columns.

Volker zipped down the smooth rope and crouched beside the wall. Taking the end of the rope he tied a reverse version of the knot above. Once done, he pulled the rope taught and the coiled mass slid up the line to the top. He jerked the rope once more and it fell free of the wall. Ahren stared in bewildered shock.

“I spent two years with a traveling circus,” the bald man said, re-coiling the silk line. “One of their acrobats taught me this trick, but you have to use a special rope for it. Maybe one day I’ll teach it to you.” He threw the coil over his shoulder and pulled his wide cloak around to hide it. “Let’s go.”

They slipped out of the graveyard, and followed the alleys back to Fritz's tavern.

#

Alarm bells rang early the next morning. Church and city guards raided every known fence and burglar in the city. Some even ventured into the dark undercity, hassling and evicting many of the vagrants in their desperate search. Whispers of the stolen artifact quickly spread, as rumors do. A trio of armored soldiers burst into Whazzik’s shop and interrogated him for an hour after rifling through his merchandise. The six gold dreins Volker had given him ensured that they learned nothing but a mention that the Gravins might be involved.

Hammering echoed down the cobbled streets as reward posters were nailed to every post and chapel door:
Eternal Salvation for the return of Saint Theobold’s remains, and one thousand dreins for the culprits.
Greed fueled suspicion, and rampant accusations filled the city.

Patrols doubled that night, especially near churches and government offices. Spies infiltrated the nighttime markets trying to uncover any mention of the stolen artifact.

Near midnight, Ahren and Volker left the security of the inn and headed into the city. Ahren’s hand kept finding its way to the heavy bag hung over his shoulder. Every glance from other nighttime travelers felt like an accusation. He couldn’t wait to be rid of the relic.

Volker leisurely led them down common streets, strolling the city as if nothing troubled him. Finally, they entered the harbor district, passing long piers heavy with moored ships. Gulls squawked and circled overhead, their white bodies cast red under the Old Kaisers’ torches. The steady breeze off the sea carried low murmurs of dice games and fights. Tired whores, their tight bodices laced over crumpled dresses, stood prattling in a pack; one occasionally sauntering into an unlit alley with a customer.

The two men passed rows of blocky warehouses, each painted differently to signify its owner. Soldiers and private mercenaries patrolled the cluster of buildings like packs of stray cats in the shadows hunting for food.

A pair of burnt out warehouses sat in the back away from the rest. Fire had all but consumed one, leaving but a skeleton of charred timbers, while its blackened neighbor still held its shape. They slipped between a stack of empty crates, and watched the buildings. Whazzik had told them the Gravins’ lair was there. Hopefully, the drake egg was inside, and still intact.

Volker tapped Ahren’s hand and motioned to a lanky figure hovering near the rear wall. The man’s gray and brown striped cloak blended well with his surroundings. The Gravin guard circled the abandoned warehouse once, before taking a seat on an overturned barrel.

Volker picked up a pair of rusty nails lying beside the boxes, then pointed to a pile of rubble between the ruined buildings, gesturing Ahren to go. Keeping low, Ahren followed the line of crates past the sentry’s line of sight, and then darted across toward the heap of charred debris. Broken bottles and loose stones encircled the buildings, forcing him to move carefully to avoid making any noise. He reached the spot and crouched behind the mound of blackened brick and timber.

A sharp thud echoed in the silence followed by the cling of metal skittering off cobblestones. Ahren held his breath, listening for the man’s footsteps. Another thwack sounded against the warehouse wall and the metallic ring of Volker’s second nail.

Ahren waited.

Soft footsteps came close. Ahren slid his dagger from its leather sheath. A shadow passed over him as the oblivious guard circled past, investigating the sounds of Volker’s nails. Once the man’s back was to him, Ahren sprang from his position, clapped his hand over the sentry’s mouth and brought the dagger pommel down hard against his head. The body fell limp to the ground. He untied the man’s tattered cloak, revealing a short, thick-bladed sword at his waist, then winced, hearing Volker’s heavy boot steps racing toward him. “You’re still too loud,” he hissed as the man crouched beside him.

“Why didn’t you kill him?” Volker asked.

“I have an idea.” Ahren pulled off his own cloak and hat and put the man’s striped cloak on. It stank of smoke and fish.

“Ah.” The brute nodded. “Good idea. Take his sword, too.”

“It’ll get in the way when I’m climbing.”

“Manage,” Volker growled. “First, it helps the disguise. Second, you might need it.”

Grumbling, Ahren untied the leather cords securing the blade to the man’s leg and slid the sheath off his belt. The unconscious brigand stirred. Volker whipped out his own knife from his boot and sliced the man’s throat. Blood, black under the faint light, gurgled from the wound and pooled beneath the guard, running down through a grid of slender valleys between cobblestones. Ahren glanced away. Death wasn’t uncommon among his profession, but he preferred not to be a witness.

After hiding the body behind the debris pile, the two men circled to the main warehouse entrance. The heavy door was barred. Ahren squinted through a knot-hole in one of the planks, but a heavy cloth had been hung on the inside, covering the hole. A dim light flickered through the coarse fabric. He put his ear to the hole and held his breath. Vague murmurs came from within.

“Are they in there?” Volker whispered.

Ahren nodded. “I can’t make out what they’re saying or how many there are.”

“Let’s assume it’s all of them, and be careful.”

They hurried around to the rear of the building where the guard had sat, and there they found a smaller door. A pair of rough-cut boards straddled the entrance, discouraging beggars or vagrants from entering. Ahren studied the timbers, finding that they were only nailed to the frame. The door itself could still be opened. Footprints in the ashen dust outside the entrance verified its frequent use. He scanned the eaves above him. The flat roof angled slightly down the building from front to back and he couldn’t see how much of it was still intact.

“Give me a boost,” he whispered, motioning to the roof. “I’ll try to get inside and get the egg.”

Volker dropped to one knee and laced his fingers together. Ahren put his foot in the big man’s hands and Volker hoisted him up with a grunt. Ahren grabbed the edge of the roof and pulled himself forward, cursing the uncomfortable position of the sword that restricted his leg’s mobility.

The dreary roof sagged under its own weight. Faint light glimmered up from an ominous fissure on the opposite side. Twin valleys of drooping shingles showed a support beam running between them all the way to the dark hole. Hopefully the timber could hold his weight.

“What do you see?” Volker hissed.

“There’s an opening. I can probably get inside there and get the egg,” Ahren replied softly. “Stay out here just in case.” To his relief, the bald man nodded and took position behind one of the broken barrels beside the door. The roof wouldn’t hold Volker’s clumsy weight, and besides, Ahren preferred the thought of stealth. He crouched to his hands and knees to spread his weight and followed the straight beam to the fissure. The spongy wood creaked and bowed slightly under him. He crawled faster before it had time to give way. Stopping where the roof curled down along the edge of the opening, he leaned his head inside. A low voice crept up to meet him.

“‘Are you afraid, Dolch?’ it asked me.”

A charred narrow loft littered with debris and fallen timbers lay only a few feet below him. Ahren slithered down through the opening and dropped gently onto it. The sword brushed a loose shingle, sending it clattering down onto the ledge. He froze. Sweat beaded his brow during the heavy silence.

“But I was too afraid to answer,” the voice continued. “The little light from the basement window behind me had been eaten up by the surrounding darkness. I heard its voice again from all sides. ‘Are you frightened because you cannot see, my child?’”

Ahren wormed his way over burnt boxes, careful not to touch any loose floorboards, until he came to the loft’s edge. Several milky tallow candles and smoking oil lamps flickered near the back of the warehouse. Half a dozen men sat on slapdash benches of boards and chipped bricks. A man in a black hooded cloak stood before them. The yellow candle light seemed to dim around him.